


While Heroes Carry Your Weight

by Cassie Morgan (BADFalcon)



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Team
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BADFalcon/pseuds/Cassie%20Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is, as Eliot likes to remind everyone, something wrong with Parker. But really, that's ok, because there's something wrong with him too. He also learns that they compliment each other, and that leaning on someone else, letting them carry some of his burden, even for a brief moment in time, is not such a bad thing after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While Heroes Carry Your Weight

Eliot inhaled deeply as he lay back, arms folded beneath his head. He closed his eyes and exhaled again, slowly, through his nose. He stretched out on the cot, an internal sigh as his back popped and his hip crunched. Another breath, a roll of the shoulder as he got comfortable, started to relax. And then the air around him exploded with noise, thumping music from the speaker on the wall. He exhaled again, slowly opening his eyes, narrowing them at the ceiling. Still breathing slowly, his hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Eliot started counting. 

When the gentle repetitive motion failed to induce a meditative state, he swung himself upright, crossing his legs and resting his palms on his knees. He continued to breathe, in and out, slowly and steadily, trying to block out the noise. He wrapped the thin blanket around his shoulders, his teeth clenched to stop them from chattering with the cold.

He pressed one hand to his ear, the touch grounding him; even though he couldn't hear them over the din, he knew the rest of his team was out there. This was part of the job. This is what he did. And ultimately, it was safe. He was safe. 

It wasn't like the last time he'd been locked in a dark cell at 20 degrees with only a rat for company. 

On the bright side, there hadn't been heavy metal assaulting him at 90 decibels that time. Just the drip... drip... drip... incessant dripping, a leak on the left wall that made him growl, leap up and smash the stone until his knuckles were bloody and the leak was still dripping. He dropped to his knees, completely unable to find his centre. The dark had left him disoriented, the lack of food and water had left him weak and the dripping kept him awake - and even if he'd been able to sleep, the damp ground was so uneven he wouldn't have been able to lay down without further injuring his already battered body. 

He'd slumped against the wall in a crouch, licking parched lips. He let his head fall back against the stone and stared up into the darkness. It was only a matter of time. He'd get out of here. They'd make a mistake. They always made a mistake. And when they did, he would be ready for them. This was part of the job. This is what he did. So for now he would sit here and wait, the darkness wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket, his shivering telling him he was still alive and the drip... drip... drip... grounding him, giving him something to focus on. 

Even if it was slowly sending him insane, the dripping calling his name; the darkness gently stroking his face, the stars tangling through his hair. 

His eyes sprang open and, growling low in the back of his throat, he grabbed the wrist connected to the hand on his face; a shocked gasp filtering through his confused mind. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. It was Nate calling his name through the comm in his ear, Parker that was touching him... Parker who was hissing his name, pulling her arm from his grip, rubbing her wrist. 

"Relax, Eliot." She took a step backwards, watching him warily as he sank down on the cot, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. "It's me." 

Eliot nodded, exhaling slowly. He was safe. University psychology department, not prison, right. This was part of the job. This was what he did. "I'm here, Nate." He scowled and frowned. "No, I just got a little... I don't need to walk away. We need to do this. I'm OK," he insisted, turning to look at the starlight filtering in through the small window. "I'm fine." He looked up at Parker who sat down on the cot next to him. "We're fine." 

"Eliot's fine, Nate," Parker repeated, patting Eliot gently on the knee. "We're both fine."   
* * *

Eliot, bruised, his hair dark and matted with blood, more blood running down the side of his face, one eye almost swollen shut, snarled and twisted against the grip he was held in, fighting his captors, teeth bared, kicking out. He smirked as he felt his foot connect then heard one of them drop, was able to pull away from them and laid a few punches in before spinning away. He'd barely taken a step forward when a yank at his shoulder had him stumbling backwards, a kick to the back of his knees sending him to the ground as his arm was twisted up behind his back. 

"I said 'deal with him'," Moreau said calmly, walking past them and sliding into the driver seat of the red sports car. "You told me he would no longer be a problem. This..." he waved a hand at the sight of Eliot being dragged to his feet, spitting blood and cursing, "looks a whole lot like a problem to me. Deal with it." And with that he drove off, waving behind him as Eliot was hit around the head with the butt of a pistol, a volley of punches to his stomach until the only thing holding him up was the grip on his arms. 

They dragged Eliot back into the prison, his feet hitting the stone steps with heavy thuds. Stopping outside a heavy door, one of the heavy set goons pulled a slim black wallet from his pocket and started putting together a hypodermic needle, filling it with a clear solution. 

Eliot groaned and started struggling again but he was too weak, too dizzy, and held too tightly. All he could do as the needle penetrated his arm was growl and groan, snapping and snarling until his vision doubled and wavered, the sedative making him feel sluggish and his head heavy. His legs gave out and dropped to his knees on the ground, arms still wrenched up by the hold on him. 

"Finally," the goon took a step back, punching Eliot in the face for good measure, kicking him in the kidney. A groan was the only response so he signalled to his team to release their grip on him. "Strip him." 

Eliot was quickly and methodically stripped, the goons continuing to beat his bruised, bloody, and barely responsive body. Their laughter rang in his ears as he coughed, spitting out blood and scrabbling for purchase on the ground beneath him but unable to push himself up, his wavering, spotty vision failing him and he doubled over, curling into himself as his world went black. 

When Eliot came around, the first thing he was aware of was that he was cold and the ground beneath him rocky and muddy. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. His head was pounding, his vision still blurry and dried blood itching on the skin of his face. Starting to reach up to wipe it, he groaned when he was unable to lift his hands. Squeezing his eyes shut, Eliot took a deep breath, exhaling softly and reaching for his center. Another deep breath and he opened his eyes again, pleased when the world was no longer swimming. He was lying on his side, shackles around his ankles with a short chain between them. His wrists were bound in a similar manner, the chain looped through the chain between his ankles. Swearing under his breath, Eliot slowly straightened his legs, testing the level of movement he had; not enough to straighten his legs out, or roll onto his back. His options were lie here on his side or attempt to right himself yet still be stuck in a squat.

"Fuck," he breathed, letting his head drop back down into the dirt. He focussed on breathing, on not exerting energy futilely struggling against his restraints - he needed to conserve his energy, after all. There was no telling when - or even if - he would get fed, although he was fairly sure they didn't want him dead; if they did, he'd already be dead. No, Moreau wanted him alive. He'd used him to get the land, to persuade the tribe to move so he could open to the mine. Used him to kill the tribe. Then got him thrown in here for genocide. He was pretty sure all he had to do was wait, and Moreau would be back. And waiting was something he was good at. He closed his eyes and continued breathing. 

The door opened and Eliot let his eyes drift open, frowning as a smiling Sophie Deveraux stepped in front of him, holding a statue in each of her hands. His eyes focussed and Eliot recognised them as Michelangelo’s David. He frowned as she crouched down, telling him how much she'd always wanted them and how good it had been of him to have helped her like this. She was using the voice he recognised as the one she used when reeling in a mark. He opened his mouth to speak but then James Sterling was there, grabbing his upper arm and tugging him to his feet, holding him up whilst punching him in the stomach.

He gasped and his eyes flew open. It took a minute for him to get his bearings, his breath coming in heavy gulps as he recognised his apartment. His heart was racing, cold sweat pebbling his skin. He was sitting up in his bed, in his apartment. Safe. Not in some backwater African prison. Safe. No Sophie, no Sterling. No Moreau. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he climbed out of bed, stretching his arms over his head. He'd known the job at the university would cause him some flashbacks, dredge up old memories. He'd been expecting it. He just hadn't...

Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he poured himself a glass of water then pulled on a pair of thin sweatpants. Moving to an open space in his apartment, he closed his eyes and slid into a Tai Chi pose. Concentrating on breathing, he effortlessly slid from one form to another, his racing heart calming and his mind clearing. He came to a stop, hands resting lightly on his thighs. Cocking his head to one side, his eyes still closed, his smiled. 

"Parker." 

Parker grinned at him from where she sat on the kitchen counter watching him. "How did you know I was here? You had your eyes closed." 

"I just knew." Eliot opened his eyes. "What are you doing here?" 

"I couldn't sleep. I knew you'd be awake. You never sleep. Much." She wrinkled her nose as she looked over at his bed. "You had a nightmare." 

"Parker..." Eliot exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"They're not bad things. The nightmares. I know you've done some bad stuff and it makes sense that sometimes it upset you." She hopped down off the counter, approaching him slowly. "But it's ok to be upset. Sophie says it means you care. She'd probably say that not having nightmares when you've done bad stuff is worse." 

"She probably would," Eliot agreed, his tone making it clear that he didn't want to talk about it.

She gave him a quick hug, ignoring the way he growled at her. "Don't be such a stuffy! We know you care, Eliot. You're not bad anymore. You do good stuff now. You do!" She insisted, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at him. "Those weird poses you were doing just now... can you show me how to do them?"

"Weird poses?" Eliot snorted and shook his head. "It's called Tai Chi." He moved to stand behind Parker, guiding her into a simple form. "It's a form of Chinese martial art..."


End file.
